Gunpowder Green

How delightful it is out here, she thought suddenly as she felt the gentle sway of palm trees and bamboo around her, caught the moonlight as it shimmered on the long reflecting pool. How cool and quiet after the closeness and social chaos inside.

But Drayton was peering at her with a glum expression. “I’ve got results, but not the kind you want to hear about,” he said, a warning tone in his voice.

Theodosia was instantly on the alert. “What’s wrong?”

“What’s wrong is that none of our soil samples match with what Professor Morrow took off your tablecloth,” he said. He drummed his fingers on the tabletop, obviously irritated.

Theodosia stared at Drayton and saw his vexation and frustration. Haley, who stood poised with a Japanese teapot in her hand, suddenly looked ready to cry.

“I did it just the way you told me to, Drayton,” Haley said.

He held up a hand. “I’m not questioning your methodology. The preliminary matches looked good. It’s just that...”

“What is it?” asked Theodosia.

“When we run a full analysis,” said Drayton, “we come up empty.”

“So Doe, Booth Crowley, and Billy Manolo are all innocent?” said Haley.

“Innocent of using soil from their own backyards,” said Theodosia. “Or the yacht club, in Billy’s case.” She was bitterly disappointed as well. At the same time, she’d known this whole soil business had been a long shot.

“So that’s it?” asked Haley. “We’ve come this far just to hit a dead end?”

“Not quite,” said Theodosia. “The soil samples were really only the lure. Now it’s time to have Timothy dangle the bait.” 

Chapter 32

Billy Manolo heard the laughter and conversation from half a block away. It drifted like silver strands out the open windows and doors of Timothy Neville’s enormous home and seemed to rise into the blue black sky.

Billy stopped for a moment and stared upward, half expecting to see something tangible in the night sky above him. Then he shook his head and resumed walking toward the big house on Archdale Street. Foolishness, he told himself. Just plain foolishness.

Henry met him at the door before he had a chance to knock or ring the bell.

“Mr. Manolo?” Henry asked in his dry, raspy voice.

Billy stared at him. The old guy in the red and white monkey suit had to be ninety years old. He also looked like somebody out of an old movie. A silent movie at that.

“Yeah, I’m Billy Manolo,” he answered, his curiosity ratcheting up a couple notches. “Is there some kind of problem?”

“Not in the least,” smiled Henry. “Fact is, we’ve been expecting you.”

“Is that so?” Billy eyed Henry warily as he stepped into the foyer and glanced hurriedly around. “Looks like you all have a party going on.”

“Indeed,” said Henry.

“This is quite a place. You could park a 747 in this hallway.”

“Thank you,” said Henry. “I shall convey your rather astute observation to Mr. Neville, I’m sure he’ll be pleased.”

“Booth Crowley around?” Billy asked. “I got some weird message to meet him here.”

“Yes, that was nicely arranged, wasn’t it,” said Henry.

“Huh?” asked Billy sharply.

“If you’ll follow me to the music salon, sir,” beckoned Henry. “It’s time we get started.”

The thatch of white hair atop Booth Crowley’s head bristled like a porcupine displaying its quills. Then his small, watery gray eyes focused on Billy Manolo, dressed in faded jeans and a black T-shirt, swaggering down the center of the Oriental runner that ran the length of the hallway. Strangely enough, he followed in the wake of Timothy’s man, Henry.

“Damn that boy,” Booth Crowley muttered under his breath, immediately tuning out the two women who’d been making a polite pitch to him concerning funding for their beloved Opera Society’s production of Turandot.

Their eyebrows shot immediately skyward. Swearing was not unknown to them, but neither was it customary for a man to display such rudeness in a social situation like this. The eyes of the volunteer coordinator flashed an immediate signal of those of the board member: Uncouth. Not much of a gentleman.

But committing a social faux pas was the furthest thing from Booth Crowley’s mind right now. His was a personality hot-wired for anger, one that accelerated from rational behavior to utter rage with no stops in between, no chance for a safety valve.

Booth Crowley bulled his way across the room. Leading with his barrel of a chest, he shoved himself between Henry and Billy in an attempt to physically block Billy’s way.

“Get the hell away from here,” Booth Crowley snarled. His lips curled sharply, his Adam’s apple bobbed wildly above his floral bow tie. Several people standing nearby paused to watch what seemed to be an ugly spectacle about to unfold.

Billy gazed at Booth Crowley in disbelief and decided the old fart had to be bipolar or whatever the current pop psycho term was. First Booth had left him a note that was practically a presidential mandate to meet him here tonight. Now the crazy fool was trying to toss him out! What an idiot, thought Billy as he shook his head tiredly. But then, everything felt nuts these days, like the world was crashing down around him.

The high tinkle of a bell cut through the raw tension and the sudden buzz of excitement.

“Everyone is kindly requested to convene in the music salon, please.” Henry’s normally papery voice had suddenly increased by twenty decibels, ringing out strong and clear and authoritative. He sounded like a courtier announcing the arrival of the queen to parliament.

“You old fool,” spat Billy to Booth Crowley as the two men were suddenly jostled, then engulfed as bodies flowed past them.

Party guests pushed toward the music room, flushed with excitement, their spirits buoyed by the free flow of the excellent Roederer Cristal Champagne. Billy Manolo and Booth Crowley could do nothing but let themselves be carried along with the crowd. The most they could manage were furious scowls at each other.

Out on the patio, Drayton, Theodosia, and Haley also heard the high, melodious tinkle of Henry’s bell.

Theodosia turned bright eyes to Drayton. “This is it,” she whispered excitedly. “Keep your fingers crossed.”

“Is somebody going to tell me what’s really going on?” complained Haley. “I feel like I’m the last person on earth to—”

Drayton grabbed her by the hand and pulled her forward. “Come on then. Timothy’s going to do his little speech. In about two minutes, you’ll see exactly what we’re up to!”

The three of them scampered up the back staircase into Timothy’s house and pushed down the main hallway with the rest of the crowd. Once inside the vast music salon, they jockeyed for position.

Standing center stage, in front of an enormous marble fireplace, Timothy Neville waited as the crowd continued to pour into the room and gather around him. High above him, set incongruously against gold brocade wallpaper, hung a scowling portrait of one of his Huguenot ancestors.

It was a full minute before all the murmurs, coughs, and whispers quieted down. Finally, Timothy looked over toward Henry, who nodded slightly at him. Timothy gazed serenely out into the crowd, found Drayton and Theodosia, but did not acknowledge them. Then he pulled himself into his usual ramrod posture and began.

“Thank you all for coming tonight,” he greeted the crowd in a ringing, impassioned voice. “It’s always an